


Eight-Pager

by triedunture



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Comeplay, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Frottage, Genderfluid Character, High Heels, Intercrural Sex, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Makeup, Modeling, Panties, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Roommates, Stockings, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve gets a job drawing dirty comics. Bucky thinks he needs help coming up with sketches. Not that Bucky minds posing in ladies' underthings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight-Pager

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brokentoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentoy/gifts).



It's money, is what it is. Easy money. And though it's technically (okay, completely) shady business, Steve believes in the first amendment. As far as he's concerned, the founding fathers meant speech should be free for everyone, even those you didn't agree with. And art—that of all things must be protected, nourished, allowed to spread its green, trembling tendrils to every corner of the nation!

"So it's _smut_ ," Bucky says.

Steve sighs and holds his sketchpad defensively against his thin chest. "It's erotic, yes," he says with a primness that ebbs the longer his best friend smirks at him. "Come on, give me a break, Buck. The guy's paying me five dollars a book. Where else am I going to make that kind of money and still have time to go to school?"

Bucky kicks his feet, nearly falling back on their shared bed in laughter. He's in his undershirt and boxer shorts in deference to the creeping heat of the summer. His mouth is red and he's sweating lightly; the sheen of it shines at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the bends of his inner elbows. "I can't believe it. Little Stevie is going to draw eight-pagers!"

Steve flushes a little at that word. Eight-pagers, bluesies...any boy growing up in Brooklyn who's fast enough to get to the back shelves of the curio shops and second-hand bookstores before getting shooed out has seen them: pornographic comics. Tiny books with dirty pictures and filthy jokes, crude renderings of Cary Grant with a huge erection or the indomitable breasts of Mae West. 

Bucky is still laughing.

"Why's it so funny?" Steve asks, sticking out his chin. He's seated at the foot of the bed, and he sits up straighter. He hates how Bucky still treats him like a little kid sometimes, even though they're both twenty now. 

"Well, you know." Bucky gets his breath back, shrugs against their rickety headboard. "Thought you never had any use for those things."

Steve never did, really. "Got better things to spend my money on," he says.

"Yeah, but when the boys would pass them around, snickering and all, you never…." Bucky's face goes soft as he trails off. 

It's true. Steve had never joined in. He looks to the side, out the window, and scratches his neck in an attempt to hide the nervous twitch of his mouth. 

"I'm not saying you're a goody-two shoes," Bucky says. "I just figured you didn't approve of that sort of thing." 

It wasn't that. To each his own, Steve feels. It was just—is just—the fear that the sight of those sketched cocks would reveal too much about little Stevie Rogers. So he had abstained from the circle of boys who pored over each panel together. 

Steve digs into his well of bravado and turns to flash Bucky a grin. "Well, the ones the guys passed around were pretty awful. Hurts my artist's soul to see work that bad." They share a laugh, and Steve fiddles with his sketchbook, fluttering the edge of its pages. "Hopefully mine will be better," he says.

"Course they will." Bucky flaps a hand. "So what are you going to draw first?"

"Don't know," Steve says with a shrug. "Some girls, I guess." He swallows, looks down at his pristine new sketchpad. "That's what the people want to see, right?" 

The joke falls flat. Bucky isn't laughing now. "Will you—?" He coughs into his fist. "Will you be able to…?" He waggles his hand back and forth in front of him.

"Geez, Buck, they're women, not creatures from Mars!" Steve can feel his face heating up again all the way to his hairline. "I see them on the street every day. I know what they look like."

"Sure, okay. But do you know what they look like—" Bucky makes a vague gesture, like shaping a bottle out of thin air. "—in the buff, I mean?" 

"What do you think all the great masters painted?" Steve huffs. "I'm studying more than just bowls of fruit and portraits of Mother Mary, you know."

"This ain't going to be great art, Stevie." Bucky leans forward, his elbows propped on his knees. "Your boss will be expecting something different. Really different."

"I can handle it," Steve snaps. 

Bucky puts his hands up as if to ward off an attack. "Okay, okay. You can handle it, I hear you." He rakes a hand through his sweaty hair and looks out the window too. "It'd be easier with a model, though." 

Steve barks a laugh. "Yeah, sure. Since I got so many girls lining up," he says. It's hard to keep the hard edge out of the self-deprecating joke, and Bucky hears it, looks at him with something that's not quite pity. Steve doesn't know what it is. 

"Their loss," Bucky says, which is his standard response when Steve gets melancholy like this. 

Steve puts his sketchpad down on the dresser and goes to make them supper. He thinks that's the end of it.

It is not the end of it. 

He's sitting on the very end of the battered couch, trying to capture the last few rays of the sun before it dips below the line of rooftops for the evening, sketching away. Nothing great, just fast little cartoon versions of movie stars in gala attire. Steve figures that should be popular enough to get him a second gig. Except it's not going so well. The panels he should be filling with drawings and jokes are….empty. 

And so is Steve's brain. 

What would the guys who buy this junk want to see, he wonders. What would titillate them? Steve tries to imagine, but all he comes up with is Gary Cooper with his come-hither eyes. Which probably won't sell like the usual books do. 

He doodles Cooper with his bowtie undone while he mulls it over. These are his fantasies, he scoffs: little vulnerabilities, near-innocent thrills. He'll never finish the eight-pager at this rate.

The walls are thin, so he hears the familiar stomping on the stairs from a long way off, which gives Steve time to flip to a fresh page. The front door bangs open to admit Bucky, breathless and grinning a mile wide.

"I got just the thing to help you with that job of yours," he says.

Steve makes a show of craning his neck to look behind Bucky. "Where you hiding her?" he drawls.

Bucky rolls his eyes and kicks the door closed. "Don't be a smartass." He stuffs a hand into his trouser pocket and takes something out with a flourish. "Ta da!"

Steve stares at the wad of fabric clutched in Bucky's fingers. His eyebrows raise and he juts out his chin, waiting for more information.

"Nylons!" Bucky says. He shakes the light gray wisp of cloth in the air. Steve doesn't react. Bucky groans. "To draw?" he adds.

Steve furrows his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, to—? Buck?" But Bucky's already hopping up and down on one foot as he wrenches his shoe off the other. 

"You're always complaining about how hard it is to get the details right. You know, folds in fabric, that sort of thing." He gets both shoes off and starts working on his fly. He can't do that and hold the stockings at the same time, so he stuffs them between his teeth while he works. 

Steve gapes. "Wait, but— Where did you even _find_ those?" It's not the most pressing question Steve could ask but it's the only one he seems to be able to form into words at the moment.

Bucky shucks his trousers down his thighs, revealing his plain white boxer shorts, and takes the wad of nylons out of his mouth. "Oh, uh, I snagged them off Mable's clothesline," he says, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. 

"Bucky, you can't just steal that girl's—her—her underthings!" Steve sputters. Mable is the curvy blonde who lives in the building behind them. Friendly but busy; Steve's hardly said three words to her, but that's not her fault. "Put them back right now!" 

"I'm not stealing, I'm borrowing. I'll wash them tonight and hang 'em up in the morning. She won't even notice they were gone." He seats himself on one of the wooden kitchen chairs, turning it to face Steve, and shimmies out of his trousers completely. 

"But you can't—" Steve protests as Bucky proves that, oh, he can. 

He slips the silky stocking over his foot, up his ankle, working the delicate fabric like a professional with his fingertips. "See, I figure if you draw a few pictures of dames getting in and out of their clothes, you won't have to do as many really filthy ones. Besides, half the fun of the bluesies is the anticipation." Bucky gets the top of the stocking up over his kneecap and stops, staring pointedly at Steve. "Well?"

"Well what?" Steve asks, and if it comes out strangled, it's just because he's thirsty. 

"Well, get to it." Bucky sticks his one stockinged leg out. He's posing, Steve realizes. He's modeling for Steve's dirty pictures. "Unless," Bucky says, a little crestfallen at Steve's blank face, "you don't think it looks good?"

"No!" Steve blurts out. "No, it's—" The shape of Bucky's leg is not what he might call feminine; it's muscled and peppered with dark hair under the sheer nylon. But something about the way the fading sunlight filters through the stocking where Bucky's fingers are pulling at it, the angle of his body facing Steve, the look in his eyes, honest but tentative…. "It looks good," Steve says. He wishes he had the courage to use the word beautiful. "Just, uh, hold it there. I think this could be something." 

Steve picks up his pencil and starts laying down lines. He draws furiously, glancing up every few seconds at Bucky, whose mouth curves slowly into a smug smirk. 

It takes some imagination, but Steve transforms Bucky into a voluptuous woman on the page: brave, dark eyes staring at the viewer. There's a dare in that look, and Steve suddenly has a little story to go along with it, even a joke. Bucky's still wearing his shirt, though the sleeves are rolled up. That's perfect; Steve draws that onto his imaginary girl, sketches an impression of bare breasts beneath the white fabric. He gives her Bucky's chin, his mouth, his dark curls, lets them fall a little longer to brush her shoulders. Beneath the finished sketch, he prints in neat block letters 'I Like Your Style, Kid.'

Steve stares at it for a long moment. The girl on the page stares back at him. 

"Can I see?" 

Startled, Steve looks up to find Bucky reaching out a hand for the sketchpad. Steve almost doesn't give it to him, because what if he hates what he finds there? It's weird, and he's not even sure if it belongs in a dirty book. Maybe it doesn't belong anywhere. 

But he gives up and hands over the pad. Bucky examines it, his mouth falling open. "Oh, wow," he says. He slouches further back in the chair, looking strange in his boxers and shirt with one stocking on. "She's…." 

"I thought it was funny." Steve's mouth runs off without his say-so. "You know, a dame comes over, there's a bunch of clothes on the floor afterward, she steals the fella's shirt and all. A flirt, like you said."

"She's pretty," Bucky says. His fingertips trace the page carefully. "Do you think this is what I'd look like if I was a girl?" He sounds sincerely curious.

Steve's stunned into silence for a long moment. Then he clears his throat. "Maybe."

Bucky looks at the picture one last time, then passes the sketchpad back to Steve. "So at least you've got a little story in mind now," he says. He rolls the nylons off his leg, and Steve is strangely sorry to see it go. "That's something."

"Yeah, I guess—"

"Hey, want to know what else I got?" Bucky interrupts. He picks his trousers off the floor and digs into their pockets again. "Get a load of this." He holds up the small tube like a magician with a rabbit. 

Steve squints at it. "Is that—?" 

"Lipstick. _Not_ stolen, before you even ask." Bucky hoists himself off the chair and pads over to the sofa. He sits down next to Steve, bare legs falling into a comfortable V. "That date I had last week? She forgot this in the bathroom. Left town before I could give it back." He opens the tube and twists it. Steve watches the cylinder of dusky red pigment emerge.

"And you kept it?" Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs, grinning at him. "Good thing, too, now that it might come in handy." His hand snakes between them and grabs Steve's shiny chrome pencil case. Bucky lifts it up to his face, uses it as a mirror, parts his lips just a little and runs the lipstick over them. Steve watches, transfixed, as Bucky's lips turn from pink to a deep, deep red. 

"What do you think? Is it me?" Bucky asks when he's done. 

Steve is motionless. Speechless. His hand comes up, unbidden, and grasps Bucky's fingers, the ones that still hold the lipstick. He guides it back to Bucky's mouth, and Bucky's lips open to accept it. 

"Stay like that," Steve whispers. "It looks— Yeah, just. Stay." 

Bucky does as he's told, lipstick poised on the swell of his lower lip. Steve turns to a fresh page and sketches the picture straight from his point of view: the close-up of Bucky's mouth, the curve of his lips, the slickness of the makeup managed in black and white. Then another panel, exactly like the first except for the lipstick, which is now replaced with the bulbous head of a cock. The caption is a no-brainer: 'I finally found the perfect color!' 

It's silly. Disgusting. Steve loves it. 

"Shade the dick black," Bucky suggests, "and it'll be one of those, what do you call it? Double entendres." 

"Bucky!" Steve fights the blush, but he does what Bucky says because he's right. It's actually better that way. More risque, but good. "Oh, that's awful," Steve murmurs, laughing at the drawing in his lap. 

"Nah, it's great." Bucky's breath is warm, and he's leaning over Steve's shoulder, so close that Steve can smell the faint tinge of his sweat. "They'll eat this up, I promise."

Steve turns and looks at Buck. The sun is well behind the skyline now, and the falling dark makes little shadows out of the planes of his face, his red mouth. Steve can't stop staring at that mouth. "Thanks," he says. "You— You're really something else, you know that?"

"Yeah, I have an idea." Bucky looks down, then back up, smiling and batting those dark lashes. "Hey Stevie?" His grin turns thoughtful. "You remember that time when we were, what, twelve?"

Steve freezes. He remembers. They were curled up on the living room floor, anything to get away from the racket in the bedroom Buck shared with his three brothers and sisters. Bucky had bragged about getting a kiss from little Marcy down the block, right on the lips, and it had come out that Steve hadn't yet kissed a girl. They'd been sprawled together, legs hooked around each other, fingers poking in sides.

"Aw, Stevie, don't be nervous," Bucky had said. "It's simple. You can practice on me if you want." And when Steve refused, his lungs and heart working overtime, Bucky sighed, "Fine. But girls do it all the time, they told me so. You really should practice."

Steve never did. And now here he is. 

"No, what do you mean?" he lies. Bucky must know he's lying because he sighs. 

"Always thought if we pretended I was a girl, maybe you wouldn't be so shy about it," Bucky says. He's so very close with those red, red lips. "Steve? Have you still never been kissed?"

Steve bites down on a small sob, a whimper that wants to escape his throat. "No," he says. "Never."

"Do you think," Bucky whispers almost into his mouth, "we could pretend…?"

Steve closes the distance between them. Bucky's mouth tastes of waxy lipstick, and somehow Steve has the presence of mind to put the sketchpad on the floor where it won't be crushed. Their teeth clack but Steve gets better at the angle, at what to do with his mouth and tongue. Bucky already knows, and guides him like he does with everything else.

It's over faster than Steve can process. Bucky pulls away, lipstick smeared across his face, panting hard, eyes wide. 

"H-heh," Bucky stutters into a laugh. "How was that?"

Steve wants to tell him everything then, all of it, how he's hidden the way he felt about Bucky all this time, ever since they were kids. How he hoped he'd grow out of it and then didn't, just as his body never grew into itself. He wants to say he doesn't need to pretend with the lipstick, but he gets the feeling Buck does and that's okay. 

"Fine," he says instead. He brings a hand up to his mouth and it comes away red. "Sticky."

"Well, now you can say you've had some practice." Bucky ducks his head and levers himself off the couch. "Think I'll hit the sack. I've— It's been a long day." 

"Buck." Steve reaches for him, but stops before his fingers can close around Bucky's wrist. He doesn't know what to say. 

"You keep working," Bucky says, gesturing to the forgotten sketchpad as he steps over it. "You got some good stuff. Maybe we can afford some real food if you get paid like you said."

"Yeah. Maybe." Steve swallows. "Good night."

"Night, Stevie." Bucky closes the bedroom door behind him. For a long moment, there's no sound or movement inside their tiny apartment, and then Steve hears the slosh of water in the washbasin. He touches his fingertips to his tingling, smudged lips. He'll need to wash his face too. 

He picks up his sketchpad and a new pencil. And he draws with the help of the flickering bare bulb in the kitchen and the ideas Bucky had left him with.

The next day, Mr. Johnson doesn't give him five dollars. He gives Steve six. 

"Keep bringing this stuff in. One, two books a month if you can swing it," he says around his chewed-up stub of a cigar. "And more of this dame, you hear me? This is high-class, not that cheap stuff you find up in Queens." 

Mr. Johnson promises him no books will be sold through the mail if Steve doesn't sell his dirty pictures to anyone else, and Steve agrees. They shake on it.

With six crisp bills in his pocket, Steve heads to the department store down on Fulton. Bucky is the reason for his six-dollar success; he deserves something nice in the way of a thankyou gift. He's reasonably sure Bucky will appreciate it. He doesn't think he imagined the gleam in Bucky's eye when he slipped on those nylons, when he applied that lipstick. 

Still, Steve's heart is beating a mile a minute as he walks home loaded down with shopping bags. Bucky's already there, fresh from the shower. He's in the living room, toweling off his wet hair, dressed for bed in his undershirt and shorts. 

His eyes light up as he turns to Steve, then rein themselves back just a little. Steve can't believe he's never seen it before; it's like looking in a mirror.

"How'd it go with Johnson? What's all this?" Bucky gestures to the bags. 

Steve doesn't say anything, just bites his lip and places the bags on the kitchen table. He opens one and pulls out a plain shoebox. Lifts the lid. Holds a pair of black kitten heels with T-straps, size ten and a half, the biggest he could find, in the air. Bucky's brow furrows as he stares at the shoes. 

Steve puts them down on the table and opens up the next bag. This time, it's a little palette of makeup stamped with Maybelline and Co. in gold.

"Steve—" Bucky says, hushed.

Steve doesn't answer. There's a third bag. He lifts out the crown jewel: a delicate set of lace underthings, all straps and gussets and nylons in a bright, dreamlike cream. He sets them out on the table and takes a step back as if to survey his little offering.

"Hope they fit," he finally says. 

Bucky drops his wet towel to the floor and approaches the table with wide, disbelieving eyes. Now that he's the one giving the silent treatment, Steve can't help but ramble on, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Bucky touches each article with quiet reverence. 

"The shopgirl was a real help. Told her I needed some things for my wife. Boy, she must've been holding in a chuckle, imagining someone my size with a dame—um, a woman your size." He licks his lips. Sticks his hands in his trouser pockets. "Buck? Say something. Was I way off base?"

Bucky looks up at him then, wet hair hanging in his eyes, a feral grin stretching his lips. "Your wife, huh?"

Steve shrugs. "Well." He pretends to pick some lint from his shirtcuff. "I take care of you, don't I?" It's meant to be a joke—because they both know Steve probably wouldn't have survived without Buck—but it doesn't get a laugh. Bucky just holds the wispy nylons up to the light, marveling at them. 

"Yeah, Stevie. You sure do." He shakes his head, holds the stockings to his chest. "You really want to see me in this stuff?"

His head is nodding before he can form the words. "I thought maybe," he says slowly, "you could pose some more for me."

Bucky pins him with a look, then shrugs. Picks up the makeup case, flips open the lid. Whistles at all the colors inside. "You might have to help me with this part," he says. "You're the artistic one, after all."

"Deal," Steve breathes. 

That dark head jerks in the direction of their bedroom. "Go get your pencils and paper set up. I'll be there in a minute." 

Steve does as he's told. Bucky closes the door between them with a wink. 

It only takes a few seconds to get his supplies in order, and then he's sitting on the edge of the mattress, his leg bouncing, trying to keep his cool. He thinks his heart might give up the ghost right there and then, waiting for Bucky to walk in. He can hear rustling from the living room, a soft curse, the tap of heels on the floorboards. 

And then, weirdly enough, there's a knock at the bedroom door. "Come in?" Steve calls. 

Bucky stands in the doorway, and Steve can't breathe. He's naked except for the things Steve bought him: his cream panties with their attached garters cleverly snapped to the lacy tops of his nylons, which lead down to his sweet little shoes. He turns around, one hand on the doorframe, to show Steve the view from behind. 

"Are my seams straight?" he asks. 

The thin white lines run a perfect meridian down the back of each leg before they disappear into the heels. "Yeah," Steve croaks. "They're good."

Bucky totters over to the dresser with the Maybelline case in his hand. He should look ridiculous, a grown man in women's underwear and too-small shoes, but Steve can't find it funny. It's moving, actually, the way he's almost more naked than if were wearing absolutely nothing. Vulnerable, just like Steve likes. 

"This part I can handle," Bucky says as he fishes the same dark red lipstick out of his sock drawer and applies it to his mouth. He presses his lips together to get the color even and blows a kiss at the little mirror on the wall. "Want to do my eyes?" 

"Sure." Steve moves over on the bed to make room, and Bucky slinks down next to him. He hands over the makeup and Steve examines the rainbow of colors. Bucky's eyes are the light blue of a winter sky, he's always thought. His professional skills are a comfort in this moment. "I think purples would be best," he says. A December sunset.

"Whatever you want." He closes his eyes and tips his face toward Steve. 

Heart, don't fail me now, Steve tells his betrayal of a body. He takes a deep breath, swirls a brush in the deep purple pigment, and waits for his hand to stop shaking. It only takes a few seconds. 

Bucky has beautiful eyes, long-lashed and well-spaced. The curves of his eyelids take the eyeshadow nicely, then Steve lines the whole thing with a finely pointed brush dipped in black. There's a tiny comb embedded in the set for mascara, so Steve uses that too, making those eyelashes darker and fuller. The whole while Bucky stays perfectly still, eyes trembling under their lids, mouth shut. 

"Okay," Steve finally says. "Take a look." 

Bucky's eyes open and look at Steve, as if he's the first mirror they need to consult. He must see Steve's reaction plain as day, because Bucky grins and bounds over to the mirror on the wall, heels clacking. 

"Jesus," he whispers, planting his hands on the dresser and leaning in for a closer look. "I'm gorgeous."

"Modest, too," Steve laughs. He busies himself with packing away the makeup while Bucky turns his head this way and that, ogling his reflection.

"You did a real nice job, Stevie," he says at last. "Too bad these comics of yours are black and white."

Steve pauses in his movements, turned away to set the makeup case on the nightstand, his eyes slipping shut. Damn it, it would have been easy to pretend this was all for a job. But as always, Bucky's seen right through him. 

The mattress dips but Steve doesn't turn around, not even when he feels the warm bulk of Bucky slotting in behind him. "If you want to pretend I'm a girl some more," he whispers in Steve's reddening ear, "all you have to do is ask."

"I—I don't want that," Steve says. There's a slight pause, and then Bucky is pulling away and Steve realizes how that sounded. He whirls, grabbing onto Bucky's bare arm with all his strength. "No, I mean—" He can see Bucky's face shutter, the angry twist to his painted lips, the darkening of his made-up eyes. "I don't need you to be a girl. But maybe…?" His other hand comes up and lifts Bucky's chin an inch so their eyes meet again. "Maybe it's you who needs it. Is that it, Buck?" 

Bucky's lip trembles and his eyes dart down. 

"It's just, last night, with the stockings and everything," Steve plows onward. "Not just when we kissed, either. I could tell you liked it. The way I drew you." He dips his head to catch Bucky's eyes. "Am I right?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. He adjusts the straps of his garters with a flick of his fingers. "You're right. I like it. I mean, I like the other stuff too, don't get me wrong. I love stepping out with girls, love the way they smell, love them in bed. But sometimes I also—" He shuts his mouth with a click.

"Also what? Come on, you can tell me," Steve promises.

"Sometimes I'm goddamned jealous of them." Bucky looks up, his eyes bright. "And I just want to be this for a little while." He smooths his hands down the sides of his thighs, down the nylon fabric. "Is that—?"

"That's all right. It's all right," Steve promises. He's brave, and he puts his hand over Bucky's, on top of his silky thigh. "I still—" He searches for the words while Bucky's eyes search his face. "I like you both ways."

Bucky's face flushes and he looks out the dark window. "I bet you say that to all the girls," he says with a dry laugh.

Steve moves closer, his hand sliding down between Bucky's legs. Bucky lets out a little sigh, lets them fall open to make room for him. "Only one," he confesses into the side of Bucky's neck. "Just now."

"Yeah?" Bucky whispers. "I'm your girl?" 

"Yeah, Buck." Steve presses a kiss behind Bucky's ear. "You're my everything."

Bucky's breath hitches as Steve's fingers go exploring up the soft skin of his inner thigh. They encounter the bulge of Bucky's cock, hard and trapped under soft lace. Steve finds the damp spot forming on the fabric, rubs it gingerly with his fingertips. "Damn it," Bucky hisses, "I'm going to ruin these things you bought me."

"I'll get you others," Steve says, and kisses him. 

This time, he's determined to make it last longer than their first, so he holds Bucky's face in both hands and clamors onto his silky lap. His knobby knees bracket Buck's slim hips, and he clings like his life depends on it. Bucky's hands slip up the back of his shirt. His nails are trimmed but he rakes them down Steve's spine anyway, leaving a pleasant trail of fire in their wake. 

Steve pulls back when he can't breathe any longer. Looks down at the picture Bucky makes, lipstick smudged, eyes dark and ringed in black, hard as a rock in his lace knickers. He can't help himself: his hips pitch forward and he grinds down on that thick cock. "God in heaven," Steve sighs.

"Do you want to get fucked by your darling girl?" Bucky asks, licking his tongue along his wet lower lip. 

"Please," Steve pants in answer before he finds himself flat on his back. 

"So polite. A real gentleman," Bucky purrs as he unbuttons Steve's fly and pulls his suspenders from his shoulders. "They don't make them like you anymore, Stevie." Then his cock is out and in Bucky's hand. He's never had much to measure it by, but Bucky looks suitably impressed. He teases the foreskin back, rubs the slit with the pad of his thumb. It comes away with a string of fluid. "Can I give you a little suck job first?" he asks.

Steve nods so hard his neck gets sore. 

Bucky smiles up the length of his body, holds his gaze as he lowers his head, opens those red lips and swallows him down. He leaves smears of lipstick up and down Steve's dick. Watches him from under made-up lashes. 

Steve can't look away. He sits up on his elbows a little, his chest heaving like mad. It's like watching an artist at work, to see Bucky lick him like this. Maybe he should be jealous to think that Bucky must've done this with other guys before, but Steve doesn't hold a grudge over things like that. He's quietly, absurdly proud of Buck instead; he certainly seems to enjoy it, so who's Steve to deny him that? 

"That feels good," Steve tells him. He digs his fingers into Bucky's damp hair, just combing through tenderly. Bucky's eyes close in apparent rapture, his head butting at Steve's hand like a pet. 

"Tell me how good," he says, lips catching the crown edge of Steve's cockhead.

"So good." Steve's breath huffs out in hurried bursts. "You're so good, Buck. Takin' care of me the way you do— Oh Christ!" His head lolls back on his neck as Bucky flickers his tongue lower, below Steve's aching balls. 

"I could slick you up down here with a little vaseline," Bucky murmurs between his legs. "Give you my fingers, get you ready for me."

Steve nods, breathless.

"But I'm going to save that for some other time." Bucky crawls up the length of his body, bare skin and soft lace brushing across his cock, until his mouth hovers over Steve's. "I'm about to burst. You must be close too, huh?"

"Y-yes," Steve admits. His hands shake as he fits them to Bucky's lace-covered hips. "But I can— Whatever you need, Buck. Just don't stop."

Bucky's lipstick grin turns from playful to soft. "What did I ever do to deserve you, Steve Rogers?" He kisses him, slow at first and then biting-fast. "Turn over," he whispers when he finally pulls back. 

Steve does so without questioning why. His head pounds and his ears buzz, and he's pretty sure he's staining the sheets with lipstick when he presses his cheek into their blessed coolness. But he doesn't care, because Bucky's silk-and-lace is pressing up behind him and his hands are taking charge of the situation. 

They strip off his shirt, his trousers and boxer shorts, tossing it all on the floor with a jangle of suspenders. The sketchpad and pencils, too, go skittering off the mattress. Then it's Steve who gets manhandled, pulled and arranged by Bucky until he's facedown, hips canted up into Bucky's supporting hands. Steve can feel the whisper of nylons against the backs of his thighs. The heat of Bucky's insistent erection, still trapped under layers of cream silk and lace.

Steve's legs spread of their own accord, like his body knows what it needs but has never had. Bucky laughs and presses a quick kiss to the nape of Steve's neck, blanketing his back for a brief moment. "No, put your legs together, real tight. There you go. That's it," he says, helping Steve along with strong hands on either thigh. 

His body is a traitor at the best of times, but Steve prays it will hold on for just a little longer. He feels like he might just break apart. The bedroom is hot and stuffy, smells like Bucky and new clothes, and Steve is sweating from being touched so well. His cock hangs beneath him, dribbling into the bedsheets. He whines when Bucky reaches for it and strokes. 

"You'll like this," Bucky promises from behind him. "We're just going to move together, you and me. Just like this." Steve turns his head to look over his shoulder, and he sees Bucky pulling his pretty panties to one side to free his cock. It's big and damp, and Steve wants it any way he can get it. 

"Buck—" he chokes out, and his legs tremble apart again. 

Bucky shushes him and presses his thighs back together. "Stay right there," he says. His cock slips between Steve's legs, slick with sweat and its mess of fluid. They rock into each other, Steve pushing himself back into the welcoming hollow of Bucky's hips, Bucky thrusting forward between slippery thighs. Bucky keeps stroking him through it while he crowds over Steve and whispers in his ear. 

"That's my boy. That's my sweetheart. Feel so good around me, want you like this all the time—"

"Yes," Steve hisses out, "all the time."

"Not just tonight, sweet boy?" Bucky slips and slides between his legs, kisses his shoulder. Pumps him.

Steve shivers. "No. Please, more."

"All right. I'll give you more nights like this," Bucky says, "but you've got to do me a favor."

"Anything," Steve cries. 

Lipstick-slick lips touch the curve of his ear. "You've got to help me make a mess of these pretty things I'm wearing, Stevie."

Steve's so close to finishing, he fears he might disappoint Bucky. So he hauls himself upright on his knees, turning his head to quickly kiss Bucky over his shoulder, then spins around so they're face to face. He takes them both in hand, not easy in his slim fingers, but he fits both hands around both their cocks and jacks them the way he does when he's alone at night. Bucky, his painted face contorted in pleasure, lets his head fall forward to rest against Steve's birdlike collarbone.

"Yes, all over me, get it all over me," Bucky chants. Steve bites his lip hard. Just a few more seconds.

Bucky comes first, thankfully. Big white globs spray his stomach and the bunched lace, a few drops on his stockinged thighs. His gasps come in big, whooshing laughs, like he's surprised by the sight. 

Steve surprises him further by pushing a hand to his chest. "On your back," he says.

"What are you—?" Bucky begins to say, but he's already going, leaning back on his elbows with his long, nylon-covered legs stretched out before him in a lazy V. Steve kisses him hard on the mouth, then shimmies backward off Bucky's lap until he's sitting at Bucky's feet, still pumping his hard cock in his fist. 

He picks up Bucky's right foot, which is still encased in the little kitten heel. 

"Oh," Bucky says, eyes wide. "Oh, yes."

That's all it takes, really, for Steve to come in big, long pulses. One hits the black patent leather of Bucky's shoe, another reaches his ankle. Bucky grabs for him, desperate noises escaping his throat, and Steve climbs back up his body. His dick drools some more as it swings under him, painting Bucky's upper thigh, the crease of his hip, the mess pooling on the front of his panties. 

They kiss, and Steve rubs the slick over Bucky's belly with his fingertips. Bucky doesn't complain. Just the opposite, his hand joins Steve's, collects some fluid in a web between his fingers, lifts it to Steve's lips in an offering. 

Steve licks his hand clean. And then, because the taste may be strange but the noise Bucky makes is good, he goes to work on the rest.

When Bucky wakes up the next morning, Steve's already been wide awake for an hour. He's still in bed, though, sheets pooled to his hips, Bucky snuggled against his side. The sketchpad was within easy reach and the sunlight was good, so he's been using the time to get some work done. 

He smiles when Bucky blinks up at him and curls closer. "Anything good?" Bucky asks, his voice rough with sleep. He's still wearing last night's makeup. The lipstick is almost completely gone, just a hint of dark red on his lips. The eyeshadow is one big smudge. 

"More of my dirty comics," Steve says. He tilts the page to show Bucky his drawing: the girly version of Bucky Barnes, dark curls wild around her shoulders, looking up at the viewer as her lips close around a thick cock. "What can I say?" Steve shrugs. "You inspire me."

"I'll show you inspiration, smartass," Bucky says, and they tumble along in the sheets.

 

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man. You guys. [makes a vague gesture of I don't even know what] I blame brokentoy, but then again I always blame brokentoy.
> 
> If you'd like to learn more about the history of blusies aka Tijuana Bibles, look them up! They're pretty neat, actually. Early fanart. 
> 
> If you like what I do and want to continue on the morally downward spiral I seem to be on, you can follow me on [tumblr](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/).


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